


Drowning

by moonstone1520



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Lust, Unrequited, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-16 23:28:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5845099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonstone1520/pseuds/moonstone1520
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I looked up to thank him and our gazes locked.  I may have gasped at what I saw, I can’t quite remember. All I remember is a swirling vortex of blues, greens, some yellow, and grey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drowning

**Author's Note:**

> The line "So this is what it feels like to match wits with someone on your level" belongs to Lin-Manuel Miranda and his brilliant musical "Hamilton."
> 
> The first portion is from Irene's POV.  
> The second is from Molly's.

                _So this is what it feels like to match wits with someone on your level._ I smirked as Sherlock Holmes, barely concealed irritation written on his face, conceded defeat and handed over my phone—my **real** phone, not the… **highly** **impressive** copy he had made. _This will certainly be an interesting game to play._

***

                I’m not sure I’ve ever wanted anyone more in my entire life. And men have never entirely been my cup of tea. It’s not only his intellect I find to be an incredible turn on—I wasn’t lying when I said that brainy is the new sexy—nor is it simply about his looks. Though I do desperately want to see if those cheekbones could cut me. If his cheekbones are this sharp, I wonder what his hips bones are like. The thought sends delicious thrills up my spine and down to my core.

                I wanted him because of several reasons, but the prevailing factors are these:

                He doesn’t give a toss about anyone or anything except his work: figuring out puzzles. His singlemindedness is highly attractive. In our lives only being about The Work, we are certainly in total and complete agreement.

                The other one is his eyes.

                One could certainly cut themselves on his cheekbones, but one could also drown in his eyes. I almost forgot myself and mounted him right there in my sitting room when we locked gazes. But the longer I looked down into those depths, the more unsettled I felt. I felt like he was x-raying me inside and out, trying to see how I worked. Being vulnerable has never been good for business however and I made sure to put my mask right back up again and deflect with some lovely (if I do say so myself) quips about disguises and self-portraits and all that rubbish. And it was amusing watching his confusion reflect back at me.

                It was all simply to hide how affected I was by his eyes.

                I let myself come to him and I let myself be vulnerable around him when John left. I let myself proposition him and I allowed myself to fall into his eyes. Again. And I know that he was just as intrigued by me as I was by him. He may have played obtuse when it came to _dinner_ , but I know when my defenses are down—it doesn’t happen often.

                And my defenses were down.

                I allowed Sherlock Holmes to read me like a book. Which, in the end, may have very well been my downfall. I wanted him—badly—and I let my heart rule my head.

                Those eyes did strange and terrible things to me.

                Of course, I could never be satisfied with Sherlock Holmes. He doesn’t have the right parts for my long term satisfaction. The fact that he beat me in the end and made me vulnerable also took away some of the charm.

                But he was a fun puzzle to play with.

                And when I fantasize at night, when Kate is asleep because she can’t keep up with me and I have to resort to satisfying my baser instincts myself, I won’t deny that his eyes do play a part at times.

                They play a part **every** time.

***

                It was his fit body and velvet baritone that stole the breath out of my body the first time he swept into the morgue. The sleek tailored suits, his trademark coat, the complete and utter confidence that surrounded his entire being, the way his voice would lower just a smidgen when he was thinking.

                His eyes are what did me in though.

                The first time we locked eyes was completely by accident. Clumsy oaf that I am sometimes, I hadn’t been paying attention to where I was going—bit hard when you’re walking and reading a chart at the same time—and banged my hip into the autopsy table. Out of sheer surprise, I tripped over my own two feet trying to regain my equilibrium and fell.

                He was there, quick as a shot however, catching me around the waist and righting me up. I know I was blushing because I felt the heat travelling from my face down my neck and into my chest. And I was acutely aware of my hands on his chest. I looked up to thank him and our gazes locked.  I may have gasped at what I saw, I can’t quite remember. All I remember is a swirling vortex of blues, greens, some yellow, and grey. I remember the colors getting edged out by an enlarging ring of black as his pupils dilated, and I remember the flitter of a thought about my eyes looking the same way.

                I couldn’t tell you how long we stood like that. It may have been hours, or only minutes. I just know that the tightening of his fingers on my waist broke the spell and we both remembered ourselves. He went back to his microscope, and I scurried off with my chart.

                The next time we had prolonged eye contact though…

                The next time it wasn’t an accident.

                We’ve always made eye contact, however it was brief and to the point. He would sweep in with his coat and his cheekbones, observe the corpse _du jour_ , make some cutting (or flattering, depending on if he needed anything) remarks about me and sweep out.

                This particular day he was mucking about with his microscope for some case or another. I was finishing up paperwork when I felt someone watching me. It was strange, because the only other person in the morgue with me was Sherlock. But I knew he couldn’t be watching me because he doesn’t… _watch_. So, I looked up to see if someone else—John, maybe—had come in without my noticing.

                But no one else was around. And Sherlock was watching me. And when he caught my eyes, he damn near pinned me to my seat with his gaze.

                So imagine my surprise when he cocked his head, stood and approached me. He moved slowly, like he didn’t want to spook me. And I could feel my blood slowly start to boil the closer he came to me. And the closer he came to me, the larger his eyes became and the more I fell into them. He stopped in front of me, oh so close, and stared into my eyes the way I stared into his.

                I stopped breathing completely when he caressed my cheek with his long fingers. I forgot myself and my eyes fluttered closed and I leaned into his touch. Supernovas exploded behind my eyes when his lips brushed mine. The tentative kisses gave way to firmer, harder pressure and his tongue brushed my lower lip asking permission, which I gladly gave. His hands came up to frame my face and I held onto his wrists for dear life as he expertly stole the breath out of me.

                I whimpered when he ended the kiss. He whispered my name, but I couldn’t find my breath to answer him. He said my name, louder this time. And again—

                —Which is when I woke up and began to fall out of my stool.

                Again, Sherlock caught me.

                Again, we locked eyes.

                Again, it felt like hours when it might have been minutes.

                The spell broke this time when Lestrade walked in with Sally.

                But right before we were interrupted, I swear his head moved closer to mine. I swear he glanced at my lips before locking eyes with me again. And I vaguely remember thinking, _I’m drowning_.

                I fell into his depths and I’ve been drowning ever since.


End file.
